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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26279887">Pleasure</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist'>LeastExpected_Archivist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BDSM, Graphic Sex, Interspecies, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Points of View</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2002-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2002-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 06:42:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,750</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26279887</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>by Lady E</p><p>Gondor, year 4 of the Fourth Age. Arwen is fascinated by the relationship of Aragorn and Legolas. And she has her own way of finding pleasure.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Least Expected</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Pleasure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at <a href="http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected">Least Expected</a>, which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile">Least Expected collection profile</a>.</p><p>Disclaimer: Everything on Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien, or the respective owners of the copyrights. The only thing that belongs to me is my unprofitable imagination.</p><p>Story Notes: 1) Basically, this is an exercise in writing a lengthy sex scene. Expect no more, no less. :)<br/>2) Eryn Lasgalen, or the Wood of Greenleaves, is the name given to Mirkwood after the War of the Ring.<br/>3) Aragorn/Arwen is implied in this fic, but it contains no actual het scenes.<br/>4) Thanks to Eruantale for betaing!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>'There was an Evenstar that shone dim and distant on the path of a Ranger. She waited, for she had been given all the time there was. And she made a bitter parting from her kin beyond the end of the world, and chose a life by the side of a mortal, for thus had been decreed. But she did not fight with him, she did not protect his life with her own, she was not there to comfort him with her body when all lights had gone out and the night was black and starless. And it was to be that a lot fell to her that was different from what she had foreseen.</p><p>There was an Evenstar and a Ranger, and yet there was another.'</p><p>Thus would my story begin, were I ever to write it. But now I see I can no longer recount everything, the time as it was, as I used to know and see it. I can only tell of moments - of a moment - of what is now at hand.</p><p>For something is changed.</p><p>My body is already more human than Elven. Mortality is taking it over day by day, and time itself has become different: whimsical, elusive. Stories are running away from me, vanishing into the unknown. Perhaps faint and distorted echoes of them shall be imagined up by some that come afterwards, when the old world is no more. Such is the way of mortal life as it flows away: few stories will be carved down in stone and the rest will be forgotten, and only in dreams and fantasies may something of them be attained.</p><p>Many a thing is changed.</p><p>Where once was an open infinity is now an end, unknown but definite. Sensations familiar from days long gone travel in my body new and lucid, and the diminishing of time makes them brighter, uncovers what is most important. The tang of chilly air as it surrounds my skin in the morning light, the sharp prick of a needle as it slips in my fingers, the full aroma of old wine on my tongue - I cherish it all as the essence of life unlike before. My gaze is turned into two directions: outwards to what I see and touch, inwards to things that sink through my skin and are absorbed into my blood, my life.</p><p>I am changed.</p><hr/><p>When I first encountered their pleasure, it took my breath away.</p><p>I was passing through the quiet arcades of the castle when I suddenly saw them. Two figures, dark and light, moving against the wall, wrapped in a blinding heat. Columns of radiant daylight were splitting the air and dust was dancing around them like flakes of fire. And on my husband's face adoration, a devotion that fused him into the other being, a companion, friend, lover.</p><p>I had not seen his face like that before.</p><p>They had no perception of being watched, but I stole away behind the corner anyway, listening to the pounding in my chest and fighting the weakness that had suddenly taken me over. I would have thought I should have felt shocked, angry, even disgusted, for it is not common for Men neither for Elves to give their bodies to another of their own sex. It has hardly been heard of, and those who succumb to such a habit are looked upon with scorn and contempt, as if they are lesser creatures, undeserving of the approval of their kin.</p><p>But instead, my body was contaminated by their mutual fever. I took my pleasure in watching.</p><p>The following morning Legolas Greenleaf took to Eryn Lasgalen to see his father and kin, and the goodbyes he exchanged with Estel were no more and no less than those of two old friends and brothers-in-arms. I was almost ready to believe my eyes had been cheated by some spell and I had seen but a delirium driven by the stirs in my body.</p><p>But as time floated by, thin and translucent and ever more difficult to grasp as it is for mortals, it was as if fog on mountains dispelled and revealed a landscape that had ever lingered there, unchanging, filled with colours and layers. What I had seen was a true, persistent and ceaseless song that always rose again. Theirs was not a passing fancy. It was not a senseless rush of desire once sated and then forgotten.</p><p>It was a lush vine covering their whole life, growing new saplings as others faded away, reaching to unknown heights, entwining their each and every heartbeat, breath, thought and word.</p><p>Legolas would come from the woods of Ithilien to stay, sometimes only for hours, sometimes for weeks. Estel would be gentle and attentive towards me, take command of the duties of the King with the same smoothness and ease he always had. But in the still shadows of the castle they would find a chamber, a bed, a floor or a wall for their play.</p><p>And I would watch. I do watch.</p><p>How they love. How they burn for each other.</p><p>Sometimes they couple fiercely and with abandon, forcing a swift and racking pleasure. Sometimes they take long, slow hours to tease one another's bodies to the peak, tormenting their own want with such strength of will that it amazes me every time. It is a mesmerising play of rejection and response, escape and surrender. Each one of them is beautiful alone, but when their different qualities are merged together, they forge in their carnal white glow a bright and merciless chain that binds me to the spot.</p><p>I'm not taken by surprise that their feeling for each other is insatiable. So is my fascination for watching them.</p><p>Once Legolas turned his eyes on me as Estel was moving inside him and my heart was a butterfly in my chest, I thought, does he see, does he know? I pressed my mouth to the back of my hand, tight, and tried to hold my quickened breath. I only dared to breath out slowly when the sounds of their release filled the space. Legolas never looked again, never spoke a word of it. In the halls of the castle his calm face greeted me with a faint smile, as it always had. I smiled back, thinking of the soft, restless movements inside me and their pleasure as it penetrated me.</p><p>Many a secret inhabits this castle.</p><hr/><p>I know their hiding-places well, and I have my own ones. My back remembers every unevenly cut stone in the walls covered by thick curtains, my eyes know the shape of every peek-hole, my limbs recall the space in every secret niche.</p><p>Tonight I wish I've interpreted their intentions rightly. I'm settled in a large room where the King holds his council around a long table. I'm sitting in a narrow niche in the corner of the room, and through the gap between the stone wall and the tapestry covering the niche I can see most of the room: the table and the seats surrounding it, the walls covered by curtains, a strip of the floor stretching towards the entrance. My space to move is minor, but if they don't keep close to the walls, I may see sufficiently well.</p><p>I wait.</p><p>And they enter. Their choice is intentionally careless, for this room is not secret or hidden. It is a daring choice, and I admire their courage, the risk-taking I know will add to their heat.</p><p>Legolas leads Estel into the room by hand. I can only see my husband's backside, the dark hair flowing down to his shoulder-blades, the simple, informal linen shirt he's wearing, and the leather breeches - as if he's not the King of Men, but still the mortal foster child of Imladris. Legolas lets go of his hand and springs quickly a few quiet steps away, eluding the touch of his lover as the man reaches for him. Estel turns slightly and traces the edge of the long table with his fingers, using it as a guideline as he feels his way toward the blonde Elf. I only see now he is blindfolded: another game they sometimes turn to.</p><p>Estel walks in slow, hesitant steps, his right arm stretched out in front of him. His touch sends Legolas moving further away, letting Estel merely brush him lightly before drawing from him. My husband flutters like a moth towards the glorious brightness of the Elf he loves, burning, falling. And Legolas, he shines, he lures. He stops and lets Estel bring his hands to his face. The man's fingertips press onto the Elf's lips, the fingers slide inside Legolas's soft mouth and he tastes them, sucks them. Their hips touch in an unhurried movement, a wake-up dance from a silent dream that will give way to sighs and pleas and cries, but not yet, not quite yet.</p><p>Estel's breath is falling heavy with want. He pulls his fingers away and leans in very close to Legolas, the tip of his tongue searching to taste his lover's mouth. Legolas plays along, his lips barely touching the man's. His smile is curving and trembling feather-like against Estel's face, the tension between them hangs dark and tight in the still air. Without a warning Legolas pulls away and in a sudden movement has captured Estel's wrists, his hold twining onto the man's skin like a rope. Estel struggles and twitches, but Legolas's strength keeps him at place. The Elf forces him slowly down to his knees, bends him to his will like wind wears away stone and gives it another shape. Legolas's quiet order cuts the air.</p><p>"You know my wish, King of Men."</p><p>And Elfstone sighs his own desire that rises visible and demanding as his body reaches out for his lover. Yet his wrists remain captured, and he cannot move. He draws in deep gasps, he waits. The grip of Legolas's fingers loosens, the Elf undoes the laces of his trousers and draws out his stiffened length, which he guides to the parted lips of Estel. The man takes him in his mouth willingly, receiving his scent, his taste, his sensuous hardness of flesh. Legolas's fingers dig into Estel's dark, wavy hair, his eyes are half-closed and their gaze fixed upon Estel's face as he drowns his want into it in deep, slow thrusts. The Elf lets out hushed, long and wailing sounds that fall upon the man like a thick net that isolates them from the rest of the world.</p><p>I wish I could pin their sensations down somehow. I'd weave that clutch of fingers curled around the hair in a tapestry, or paint a picture of that face flushed with lust in a fabric with careful stitches of needle, or spin those words of fever in a song. But how could the Queen of Men tell such stories of their King? How could the Evenstar of the Elf-folk reveal what would certainly seem a betrayal to those of her kin that love her?</p><p>Legolas slows down his thrusts, tense and quivering, evading his release, and draws his arousal from Estel's mouth. Estel licks the tip of his manhood, savouring the taste of his lover, tormenting the sensitive flesh. Legolas's face wavers and changes as will works to displace want on it. His hand pulls Estel's head back with a tug, forcing it away from himself.</p><p>"To your feet, Aragorn."</p><p>And the King rises, his knees give in a little, sore from the hardness of the stone floor, but he rises tall and firm. Legolas stirs and is upon him, around him, pure wind and light surrounding the man, my husband. Their kiss is hungry as they claim each other's taste, melting, merging. They murmur their passion into each other, moaning and sighing, flesh reaching for flesh. Legolas slips his hands under Estel's shirt, caresses the bare chest, the forms of the muscles, drawing images of what has been and what is yet to come. He seeks and finds. Estel's mouth opens in a restrained cry as his erection is freed from the coarseness of the breeches into the softness of the living skin. Garments are burning off them as they're bending, winding, sliding in each other's embrace.</p><p>And I'm burning. I'm bending and winding and sliding and arching, my eyes are arrows aimed at them, impaling the sight like a beautiful and doomed animal of prey that is not to find its escape.</p><p>Legolas pushes Estel onto the table, holding a strip of leather in his hand, the belt he carries on his waist. He twists it around the man's wrists and tightens it into a knot, pushes Estel on his back - I can no longer see my husband's face. Legolas climbs astride on top of his lover and forces his arms behind his head, ties the loose end of the leather strap around the table leg. Then he draws back, spreads the legs of his lover and takes his place between them. He's standing firmly on the stone floor, back half-turned to me, partly blocking my sight of the King who is lying on the table captured and blinded, a slave to his Elf.</p><p>Legolas bends to the pile of clothes on the floor to find a bottle of oil he always carries with him. I can sense the familiar, spicy scent of the oil when he rubs some of it on himself. He gives a few strokes to Estel's manhood that is rising hard and lifts the man's feet on his shoulders, opening him to the full. He places himself to the man's entrance, moves lightly, carefully, feeling, teasing. The leather belt holding Estel's wrists tightens as the man's arms tense, his muscles move and scream for a pleasure that loiters, keeps him waiting. My husband speaks, he pleads, he begs.</p><p>"Undo the blindfold."</p><p>Legolas doesn't lift a finger to fulfil this wish, he keeps stroking Estel painfully slowly, up towards the moist tip of the shaft and down towards the fluff-covered testicles.</p><p>"Legolas, please. I wish to see your face as you take me."</p><p>The movement of Legolas's hand stops. Then he reaches towards his lover's face, slides his fingers under the blindfold and edges away with it, frees the eyes to look at him. I see his body shiver, and he will wait no longer, no longer at all. Flesh bites into flesh, and they both make a sound as Legolas sheathes his length deep into Estel, his oiled fingers still around the man. He's taking Estel forcefully, completely, driving cries and whispers out of him, pushing ever deeper into the muscular body that closes around him receptive, possessive.</p><p>Their movement is a blood-red and living heart in the dusk of the room, it pulsates and wavers, and even though I cannot see their faces, I know they're looking at each other, looking at the life they've chosen, looking at the love they keep from the world, looking at the desire that ties them together and wrings all their nights and days. They forge in their carnal white glow a bright and merciless chain they use to bind each other --</p><p>And me, my glow, the soft and dark and restless stirs of my body, as they slow down and settle little by little, and my breathing calms down --</p><p>And their peak is over, Legolas has collapsed on top of Estel and is opening the knot of the leather belt with trembling hands for his lover to wrap his arms around him and wield his fingers on his skin, fair and warm, for them both to rest, to tire.</p><p>I move away quiet and Elf-like, leaving them there, in the tangle of their spent lust.</p><hr/><p>Time passes elusive, imperceptible.</p><p>When Estel returns to our marital bed later in the night, the scent of his lover's touch fading slowly on his skin, he pulls me to him and looks at me. I do not turn my eyes away, but read everything in his. I see my part in the story is no lesser for their love, it is merely different from what I believed I had chosen. I listen to the stirs in my body, and he listens to them too, and our bond is unbroken.</p><p>I have his tenderness, his presence, and these mortal shores. And I have my pleasure that grows from theirs.</p><p>Since time is no longer without an end to me, it shall suffice.</p><p>It must suffice.</p>
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